


Dear God

by Sevenmarks



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons, F/F, F/M, Fallen Angels, M/M, Multi, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Secret Organizations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 03:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15677409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevenmarks/pseuds/Sevenmarks
Summary: "Oh, you don't want to go that way, dear." A voice cooed. "There are ancient things that will feast on your soft flesh and steal your soul. Go to God. Go to God, young one." A cackle echoed. "Don't let them take you too!"Kayden Mumford has been known by many names. The guard on ninth street. A low level drug dealer. A high level escort. That's just what being an undercover cop entailed. But among the dead that litter the streets of New York are secrets that eat souls and Kayden felt he lost his long ago.





	Dear God

**Author's Note:**

> My brain spewed this out. My brain also made a Tumblr to throw sneak peaks and aesthetic shit for this story. Check it out: sevennmarks
> 
> This is going to be a first rough draft so bear with the horrid tenses. English and Spanish like to do this thing where my brain thinks it's all the same. Wooooo. *stare*

**Ad Fontes**

**Ad Meliora**

 

 

There is a certain crispness in blood that is only detectable when one is at their most vulnerable; like the priests staggering to their knees in frighteningly quick succession. When it is fresh and deliciously warm, there is nothing to block curious fingertips from dipping into the puddles and toying with its essence. It’s only when the air has become too dry for it that leads blood to dull and harden; creating a soft shield in a last resort in protecting itself from discovery. Despite its efforts, curiosity is far too quick, and swift fingers will curl around that shield and burst through to the other side and dip into the lukewarm center. It is divine. It is human. It is exquisite. Only when this is possible will one be vulnerable. If one wasn’t, such lifeforce would have been cleaned away at their earliest convenience. Not here though. Not now.

Soft crooning whispered up towards the cross of divinity, echoing back it’s silence. Among the fallen priests lay their rosary and holy candles that rolled down golden carpets. A long finger caressed the sturdy brown benches placed in long neat rows. The stain-resistant gloss that was thickly layered shined in the brightly lit church. Nothing was to stain the holy ground. We must not inconvenience Divinity after all.

“W-Why?”

The hand dropped from its place on the gleaming bench and strayed toward his side. Wet coughs escaped the last priest that lay belly up on marbled steps. The priest still clutched his rosary tightly in his hands and stubbornly held onto hope.

Oh, what a fool he was. Silently making his way to the fallen man, The Reaper watched Father Atlas’s bones rattle with effort. He was weak. The Reaper hummed from the back of his throat and loomed over the top step, admiring the shudder that rode down the Father’s spine before tensing.

“Tell me!” Father Atlas cried. “Who are you to be Judge, Jury, and Executioner!”

The organ seemed to purr with the priests words. The tall pipes shaking with excitement. Holy, holy, holy. The golden bells on every sculpture and depiction shook and cried back at them. The Reaper’s mouth stretched thin in an interpretation of a smile and his eyes were warm and delighted. Father Atlas faltered beneath the expression; fear and confusion clouding his own bloodshot eyes.

“I am what you say I am every Sunday, Father. What you tell everyone we are.” The Reaper’s mouth sharpened minutely.

“I am God’s Creation.”

The priest choked and his rosary exploded within his grip. The charms scattered every which way. The bells rang louder and the pipes sang softer. The blood did not cool within the halls of Divinity and the unmoving bodies of the others did not disturb the world around them. The Reaper descended down the steps, his footsteps heavy and loud to remind any remaining ears that he is the only one there. He fell into a bench to await the stillness to overcome Father Atlas. The marbled steps bounced the regrets and pleas that spilled from the elder mans gaping mouth. The remains of his rosary were branded into his palm, allowing more of his lifesource to flow freely rather then staunch the clear wounds on his person.

Vulnerability to divinity is a weakness when one lets their own blood cool in hope of being saved by silence. The Reaper lay his head back against the bench and basked in the warm sun that shone through the stained glass. The sunset washed the room in a wondrous glow. The tall throne sat heavily below the cross. The bells fell silent and the organ stopped whistling.

It was holy in a different type of way.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this little snippet, what are your theories as to where this is gonna go?


End file.
